


Something Might Be Found

by blithelybonny



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Coming Out, Competition, D/s undertones, Getting Back Together, Hockey Is A Business, Jealousy, M/M, Marriage, Praise Kink, Rimming, Sexting, Texting, The NHL Kinda Sucks, feelings are complicated, mutual favors, relationship troubles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-06-02 10:40:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19439788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blithelybonny/pseuds/blithelybonny
Summary: Right when Kent is super totally for sure this time ready to be over Jack Zimmermann, Jack decides he needs a favor, and Kent always collects on his debts.





	1. Kent

**Author's Note:**

  * For [familiar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/familiar/gifts).



> Dear familiar, I hope I was able to do your request justice. (If not, frankly, I have two other stories based on your requests that I have many many words for but scrapped because I wasn't going to finish in time and would be more than happy to try again, lol.) Please enjoy and happy bday Kent!
> 
> Title is from 'hey jealousy' by the Gin Blossoms.
> 
> WIth thanks, also, to my fabulous cheer-reader and beta who I will name properly on reveals.

Kent Parson broke up with his boyfriend—via text message, like a real fucking asshole—about ten minutes before Jack Zimmermann kissed that little blond guy from his college squad, at center ice on live national television. They were still in the middle of the “fight” part, but Kent didn’t have the attention for two, equally huge emotional moments, so possibly—no, definitely stupidly, he chose to focus on his long-since ex’s coming out moment, instead of the end of his relationship of over a year.

Because it had hit Kent, in that moment, staring at the video on his cellphone, watching the kiss replay over and over again, that whoever Zimms had been when he and Kent were together, Kent had no clue who he was now. The Zimms that used to play with him, the guy who drank a little too much and nerded out about history and complimented his hockey when he wanted to make out and never wanted to talk about the future and always made sure that nobody could see them before he leaned in for a kiss—that Zimms was not the confident, uncaring, Stanley Cup winner Kent saw in the video.

Not, of course, that people couldn’t grow and change and get their heads on straight. It was just that the last time he and Zimms had spent any significant time together, Zimms was once again unceremoniously shutting Kent out of his life. So maybe it was just Kent. Or maybe it was _Kenny & Zimms_.

But whatever it was, Kent realized that he and Zimms were very different people now, basically, and all that to say:

“I’m sorry I was a dick. I didn’t even really want to break up—so, um, can we maybe try again?”

Ferris Smith looked dubious and more than a little aloof, but he always kind of looked like that, which gave Kent hope. “Do you still not want to move in together?” he asked flatly.

“I mean…it’s still kind of a bigger deal than just living together, babe,” Kent answered slowly. “But um—hey, hey, come on, sit down, please, I’m trying here!”

After a moment of hovering a little awkwardly in a half-stand, Kent’s hand clinging desperately to Ferris’s fingers, Ferris sighed and retook his seat. Kent still didn’t let go, and Ferris curled his fingers in to get a better grip. “Look,” he said, soft but firm, “you know it was a big deal for me to even ask in the first place, and when you handled it the way you did, it made me—you know—shut down a little.”

“I know,” Kent replied, earnest as anything. “And I’m sorry. I really am sorry, okay?”

“Yeah,” Ferris encouraged, “but I don’t know if just that’s good enough for me yet? You kind of made me feel like a fool, Kay.”

Kent smoothed his thumb over the back of Ferris’s hand, over the thin scar from back during his surgical rotation. He’d gotten it long before he and Kent had met, but Kent liked that he knew the story. “How do I, you know, show you?” he then asked, gentle and low and sincere.

Ferris scoffed—not a snort because he would _never_ , but something disbelieving in the back of his throat—and said, “Fuck me, I don’t know, babe. You know I’m fucking bad at this too.”

“So basically,” Kent said, starting to smile, “what you’re saying is we’re perfect for each other, and we should just pretend we never broke up in the first place and go on exactly as we were before?”

With a roll of his eyes that Kent could tell was fond, not annoyed for real, Ferris replied, “Yeah, fine. As long as this isn’t just because you’re freaking out over your ex.”

It was maybe a little bit about that, but mostly it was about being a grown-ass man in a grown-ass relationship with another grown-ass man and not being afraid of what that meant for the future. Kent explained that in slightly less juvenile words, and then added, “But honestly, I love you, you know? I just…I love you, and I want to be with you, and maybe we can just leave it at that for now?”

Ferris’s lip curved up in a half-smile—he thought it made him look smirky and mysterious, and Kent agreed usually—and shrugged his shoulders. “Sounds good to me,” he said. “And I love you too.”

They lasted another threeish months, which was a record for both of them. It was just as well, though. The season was about to start, and Kent didn’t think he was up for another round of ‘we know you’re seeing someone, just introduce her to the WAGs already, Jenny is getting super pissed’ from the guys.

It was great being back on the ice again. Kent loved the first practice back after training camp—things were starting to come together like they would in actual games, lines and d-pair chemistry starting to gel, rookies and call-ups demanding notice and vets proving their worth. It was always such a great, hopeful time.

“I think we’ve really got something this year, buddy,” said Carly, knocking elbows with Kent where they stood near the boards, observing a three-on-three scrimmage. “Beeker’s gonna slot in on Troy’s line easy, and the Kiddo is a fucking terror at the blueline.

“Stanley is totally ours this year—no jinxes or anything,” Kent replied, nodding a little.

“You gonna pull a Zimmermann stunt if we do take the Cup?”

“Fuck off, Toby,” Kent easily replied, hoping it was his regular level of chirp and not super fucking obvious in the way he still sometimes got even after several fucking years of Carly running his shit mouth.

“Jussayin’ bro…Jenny is still making noise about you being ‘single’ again. You sure you’re not, you know, hiding some dude or whatever?”

There was something different in Carly’s tone—something, god help him, Kent thought might be genuine? Might not be just more homophobic bullshit? Might be offering Kent the chance to come out without being punched in the face or something?

Had it been Scrappy, Kent might not have hesitated. Swoops was the only one who knew (and that had been less a coming out than a ‘dude, I went to put Grindr on your phone as a prank, but you already had it and now I feel like a huge fucking asshole’ situation). Scrappy might have been legit earnest about wanting Kent to feel safe with sharing his private life. But Carly—nah, Kent couldn’t shake the lingering suspicion of years of ‘jokes’ for one possibly-serious moment.

That, maybe, and the fact that technically at the moment, he _wasn’t_ hiding some guy. (Although, his date with one of Celine Dion’s back up dancers a few nights ago had ended promisingly.)

Kent laughed and reached over to punch Carly in the shoulder in a total bro-ish way. “Nah, man, no chicks and definitely no fucking dudes. I’m way too busy for that shit.”

“You’re always too busy—must be fucking nice actually. Monogamy sucks,” Carly said, and if he sounded a little disappointed at the lack of gossip, it was drowned out by the whiny way he dragged out ‘sucks’ like a dumb kid.

“Must be nice to always have someone to come home to,” Kent countered.

Carly nodded at that. “True, true, Jenny is the fucking best bro, especially after a loss.” He skated off then, to slap a few pucks Stani’s way, missing Kent’s wistful, “Yeah exactly.”

It didn’t really work out with Marco, but then Kent hadn’t really expected all that much. Relationships were tough enough at the beginning stage of going beyond the superficial stuff without the added pressure of one-half being gone for most of it. The Aces had an early November roadie that lasted just long enough to kill the fledgling thing between them before Marco pulled the plug. (Via a phone call because he was mature, but not _that_ mature and something that felt kind of what Kent imagined an ‘exit interview’ to be like.)

Kent was laid out on the hotel bed in Boston debating between an ill-advised Grindr hookup and an even more ill-advised phone call to his ex, when the choice was abruptly taken away from him. Had he been paying closer attention or had been in a less sad headspace, he might have noticed before he answered the phone that it wasn’t NOT A GOOD IDEA calling, but rather LITERALLY DO NOT KENT WTF.

“Uh, hey,” Kent replied, after a way too long moment of trying to figure out how not to sound shocked and caught off guard by Jack’s voice on the other end of the line. So like…nailed it, clearly.

“I’m sorry to bother you, but I need a favor and I already used up my one from Marchand.”

Trying not immediately to get super pissed off, Kent repeated, “You need a _favor_ ,” in a way that would demonstrate his disbelief and annoyance tactfully.

Jack sighed gustily. “Yeah, I know, believe me, if I had anyone else to ask, I would,” he said, salting an apparently still very open and fresh wound with his complete social boneheadedness. “But I guess I’ll owe you one too, then.”

Kent manfully bit back a ‘go fuck yourself’ and said, instead, “What do you want?” because maybe he was always going to be a sucker for stupid Jack Zimmermann. Call it nostalgia for the guy Kent used to know once upon a time, maybe.

“Could you get a couple of glass seats for tomorrow? It’s Shitty’s birthday present.”

“That’s ‘mustache bro,’ right?” Kent said, even though he knew perfectly well who Shitty was.

“Heh, yeah,” Jack replied, like they were the kind of people who vaguely chirped each other’s other friends or something. “I, uh, forgot. He said it was no big deal, but I feel bad and I didn’t think more Falcs merch would cut it as a gift.”

There was _a lot_ to say to that, ranging from a harmless ‘you give your friends Falcs merch as presents’ to a not so harmless ‘you’re a terrible fucking friend,’ but Kent settled on, “Shitty always seemed chill to me, so he probably meant it when he said it was no big deal.”

Jack didn’t respond for a long moment, and Kent tried to dissect exactly how such a neutral statement could have possible set Jack off, but then he laughed lightly. “So can you help me out?” he asked, softer than before.

_Fuck you, well and truly,_ Kent through, even as he pulled up a text to Chara and asked for a pair of seats if he could swing it. “You owe me one, Zimmermann, and I fully intend to collect.”

“Thanks Kenny,” Jack replied. “Have a good game tomorrow.” He hung up, then, before Kent could fucking yell at him for being a shit-eating, goddamned fucking asshole.

So…ill-advised Grindr hook up it was.

LITERALLY DO NOT KENT WTF (10:40 AM): What is your favorite flavor of pie?

Kent waited to answer the text in person because he was too busy being a professional fucking athlete and doing his game-day routine to bother with stupid texts from fucking jerks who were clearly just trying to mess with him.

“If you think,” Kent said, a huge smile on his face for the cameras that were almost certainly trained on them, “that getting your boyfriend to bake me a pie will satisfy the debt, you clearly don’t kno—clearly over-estimate my sweet tooth.”

Jack made a face, which is to say his hockeybot mask lifted for half a second, then said, “He made one blueberry and one peach, and then a batch of lemon bars just in case.”

Kent skated away backwards, calling out, “I may play as good as Crosby, but I don’t eat dessert like him.”

“You don’t eat ass like him either,” said Carly, when Kent reached his side.

“Goddamn, Carly,” Kent grinned, shoving him over, “you’re fucking missing out, babe.”

“I—wait, what?”

“Don’t worry about it, fucker. We have a game to win,” Kent replied, pushing off and beginning his final lazy loop during warm-ups.

He rounded up the last of the remaining pucks and shot them one by one into the goal Stanislav had just vacated. “I’m stone wall today, Parser,” Stani said, as he snagged on of the pucks and shot it down to the Falconers’ goal. “See? Good sign.”

“Last time you scored in warm-ups, you own-goaled, ya dingus,” Kent laughed. His eyes, however, tracked Jack, as Jack fished Stani’s puck out of the net and started stickhandling a little. He was the only Falconer left on the ice.

“Stone. Wall,” Stani repeated, clapping a glove down on Kent’s shoulder. “Falconers lose big time.”

“I’m here for it if you are.” Kent then shooed him off with a swat of his stick against Stani’s fat padded ass.

Across the ice, Jack was clearly stalling now, showing off for the front row with more flashy stickhandling. The little blond boyfriend was absolutely loving it, if his giant heart-eyes and hands on the glass were anything to speak for him. Kent shook his head, took a last lazy loop, and then drifted toward the bench-gate.

The crowd picked up in volume and a cheer rose as Kent put one skate over the step, but left the other on the ice, bracing his hands on the ledges to steady himself. He glanced behind himself to see that Jack had finally also skated over to the home doors, and was about to step off completely. Jack paused though, and looked back, meeting Kent’s gaze across the ice.

_Zimm-bo-ni, Zimm-bo-ni, Zimm-bo-ni,_ rose the chant. Jack lifted one hand and sarcastically gestured for Kent to go, which earned him an even bigger cheer and a ton of wolf-whistles.

Kent laughed, dropping chin to chest, and shook his head. He wasn’t actually all that superstitious, especially for a hockey player, but leaving the warm-up ice last was his _thing_ , no matter if he was home or away—everyone knew that, and almost everyone (apparently) accommodated him. Fucking Zimmermann, seriously.

“Get outta here, Parse,” came the call across the ice.

Kent turned around so fast, he might have given himself whiplash and fallen on his ass if he hadn’t been holding on. But Jack was grinning at him, the chirpy fucker, and where the hell was this guy the last time they played each other in Providence? (Or, like, every other time they’d seen each other since that fucking dumb party back at Jack’s school a few years ago.) Kent then stepped over the lip again and dragged his left foot behind himself so that his toe was just on the edge of the ice, dangling there. _Your move, buddy,_ he thought, over the chorus of boos that rained down.

He watched over his shoulder and then, when it started to strain too much, up above at the video screen, then pumped his fist like a Jersey Shore bro when Jack gave in and stepped off the ice first to head back down the tunnel.

When Kent got back to his own stall in the visitor’s dressing room, he got out his phone and texted Jack, knowing he wouldn’t get it until after the Falconers lost later.

YOU (5:51 PM): that doesnt count as the favor either [sunglasses emoji]

Kent started including Jack’s number in his bi-weekly Kit-spam, which would normally have been a stupid idea, except that Jack actually responded more often than not, sometimes with pictures of his gear or his apartment or whatever baked good his boyfriend had recently made.

For his part, Kent tended to avoid responding to the texts that included the boyfriend himself, whether his hands holding up the (usually) pie, or the back of his golden head while he took something out of the oven, or his entire bright smiling face for no reason whatsoever. The first time it had happened, Kent had waited for the inevitable “whoops, that wasn’t meant for you” follow-up text, but when it never came, and the boyfriend photos became more regular, Kent figured it was just like…a thing now, that they did. Like friends or something.

(Kent just barely stopped himself from sending a half-nude of Ferris in return to a Jack-and-the-boyfriend selfie kiss—which, yeah, Jack Zimmermann was definitely a completely different person, if Kent hadn’t already been convinced of that very fact before, he was now—and was very proud of his own self-control.)

He was in line to pick up an iced coffee from his favorite little out of the way place, a few days after he’d gone on a really excellent date with a local stand-up comedian, eyes engrossed in his phone and the fucking rude, honestly, picture Jack had just sent him. It was Jack, looking tall and handsome and in love, and the boyfriend, looking sweet and cute and also very in love, holding out a tray of cookies, and they’d captioned it A LANNISTER ALWAYS PAYS HIS DEBTS. Might have been funny, honestly, except that Kent was pretty sure this was all getting out of hand, and he was tired of feeling caught off guard by Jack Zimmermann right when he’d finally started to maybe actually move on for real.

Kent’s name was called, and he shuffled forward, only to bump into someone because he hadn’t looked up from the way Jack and his boyfriend looked happier than Kent could ever remember feeling. (And yeah, maybe he was being a little fucking dramatic, but—fuck it.) “Fuck, bro, I’m so sorr—oh, shit, uh, hey—hey, uh, hi, man.” So goddamn smooth.

Ferris dropped the hand he’d reached out to steady Kent with and favored him with that dumb, still very cute half-smile. “I thought pro athletes were supposed to be graceful.”

“Says Dr. ‘Drop My Drink’,” Kent chirped back, as he reached up to straighten his snapback and slipped his phone into his back pocket.

“Mostly did that to get your attention,” Ferris admitted.

“Well, it worked,” Kent replied, fighting against a blush. “You, uh, on your way to work?”

“No, just came from an interview, actually. You?”

Kent’s phone buzzed three times in quick succession against his ass, and not expecting it, he jerked his hips forward in surprise. “Uh—”

“—well shit, I mean, if you’re up for it, I’d be interested,” Ferris said, in a very suggestive tone that Kent remembered very well.

Kent quickly pulled out his phone to buy himself some time, under the pretense of checking his schedule. The buzzing had been three more texts from Jack, and Kent didn’t have to look at them at the moment to guess what they’d be of. So, yeah— _fuck it_. “Yeah, definitely,” he answered, looking up at his ex through his eyelashes.

Ferris got smoothly to his knees right in the entry hall of Kent’s apartment as soon as they got through the door. He nuzzled at Kent’s junk through his shorts, hands sliding up his thighs underneath the material and squeezing the thick muscle there. “God, I’ve missed you,” he murmured, before mouthing at the outline of Kent’s dick.

Kent missed…well, _this_ maybe. He hadn’t hooked up a ton since he and Marco had called it quits and not at all since that DL guy back in Boston a few weeks ago, but he didn’t know if that meant he also missed Ferris specifically. At the moment, though, maybe the distinction didn’t matter.

Eventually, they made it to the bed, where Ferris took his time eating Kent out thoroughly and well, lubed him up with a couple fingers, and then fucked him good and slow until Kent came all over his own stomach. Ferris finished a bit later, right before it started to edge into overstimulation territory, pulling out to mix his jizz with Kent’s and smearing it up into Kent’s chest.

“Fuck me,” Kent groaned out, inhaling and exhaling a long, shaky breath.

“Thought I just did,” Ferris replied, as he continued slowly to rub his come into Kent’s skin. “Give me a little bit and I can do it again.”

“I have to be fully functional tomorrow morning, otherwise I’d say yeah,” Kent ruefully replied.

Seemingly satisfied with his work, Ferris flopped on top of Kent and pressed his pointy chin into the dip between Kent’s pecs. “Too bad—maybe some other time then,” he said, gray eyes still dark with arousal. “Because your ass remains flawless.”

“Hashtag hockeybutt,” Kent said, absently running his fingers through the long blond strands of Ferris’s hair. His phone buzzed again from where he’d managed to toss it safely on his night stand, and he grabbed for it with his free hand.

SOMEHOW JACK ZIMMERMANN IDK (5:08 PM): Should I stop sending these?

Attached was yet another fucking photo of the boyfriend looking (not that Kent wanted to admit it) very fuckable in a pair of short red shorts and a muscle tank, holding up a tin of what looked like brownies with M&Ms in them. He also looked to Kent like he was smiling with every single one of his teeth, his big brown eyes full of passive-aggressive charm.

“Fucking yeah, Jack, Christ,” Kent muttered—because yeah, fucking clearly Jack knew he was being a fucking asshole.

“Hmm?” Ferris looked up at him out of a light doze, judging by the softness now in his eyes. He’d always been much less prickly after sex and right when he woke up—and also much more inclined to cuddle up. And also somehow ten times hotter too.

“Smile sexy, babe,” Kent said, before he could think better of it. Then, after a few shots and satisfied that Ferris looked stupid hot and thoroughly sexed out, he attached it to the message to Jack.

YOU (5:11 PM): sry bro. little busy [eggplant emoji] [raindrops emoji]

“You’re an asshole,” Ferris said admiringly, and mouthed lightly at Kent’s nipple, before putting his head back down for a nap.

“Yeah, but you like me that way,” Kent softly replied, locking his screen and setting it to the side again.

Shit, anything to get Jack to take a hint, right? And, well, maybe even the score a little? Kit, as much as she was his princess, was never going to be the precision strike to the jealous heart of Jack (you know, if he still had it and—yeah, maybe not, but who knew, not Kent…) that a fucking stupid hot boyfriend was going to be. Friends shared their lives with each other, shared pictures of their significant others with each other. Maybe that’s all Jack had been trying to do in the first place. Kent could work with that. Totally.

“Maybe third time’s the charm?” he added, to himself because Ferris had definitely fallen asleep.

Kent ignored the buzz of his phone and settled in for a nap.


	2. Jack

“Kent Parson got married last night,” Bittle said, sliding a plate of eggs and bacon in front of Jack before taking his seat on Jack’s right with his own plate. “That’s why he’s trending on Twitter.”

Bittle always used Parse’s full name whenever he brought Parse up. Jack used to think maybe it was just a Southern thing, until Thirdy’s wife had explained it was more of a distancing mechanism for ‘anyone your boyfriend used to fuck’ type of thing. “What?”

With that soft, fond look he got sometimes when Jack was being particularly obtuse, Bittle replied, “Kent Parson? He got married apparently. I assume to that blond boy he was always sending us pictures of, bless his heart.”

Jack picked up his phone, unlocked it, but then set it back down on the table, frowning gently down at his plate. “He got married to that doctor, but the trending item is that he got married…not that he’s gay?”

Bittle laughed and pointed his fork at Jack. “Well, that too of course! But I think that’s less of a story than the secret wedding,” he said lightly. “How long had those two been together?”

And okay, that made sense—as far as Jack knew, which he knew wasn’t all that much still, Parse and his doctor had been seeing each other for a couple of years, but he didn’t think they’d gotten engaged or anything. He was pretty sure that Parse would have told him? In fact, Jack was pretty sure that Parse and the doctor didn’t even live together. So…marriage was kind of a massive leap forward, and for someone as carefully in the closet as Parse was, it seemed like a huge fucking deal to just say fuck it and come out married in one fell swoop.

“I should call him,” Jack said, picking up his phone again.

“I’m sure he has plenty going on without you adding to it, hun,” Bittle said. His fork scraped a little against the plate, but he looked up with a smile. “Maybe wait for him to call you?”

“He won’t. I always have to—” Jack cut off and glared down at his phone, as if it might ring suddenly and prove himself wrong. “The Aces aren’t exactly—” he started again, with a huff, “—well, nobody’s really like our team, but the Aces are definitely not—”

“—I’m sure it’ll be all right,” Bittle interrupted, reaching out to cover Jack’s hand with his own. “You know he wouldn’t have done it without a plan, sweetpea. And anyway, it’s not, um…oh never mind.”

“What?” Jack prodded, when Bittle said nothing for a too-long moment.

“Nothin’, sugar, really,” Bittle answered, smiling brightly again. “But sure, why don’t you give him a call after morning skate? You’re right, I bet he’d be happy to hear from you.”

Bittle busied himself with his breakfast again, and Jack had learned well enough by now that it meant the conversation was done, even if he wanted to prod a little, which he supposed he didn’t. Bittle kind of had a way of making his mind up about things, especially uncomfortable things, that, while he’d definitely made progress on being more open, meant he wasn’t always interested in talking. Jack knew he wasn’t exactly all that much better in the communication department either, so occasionally it was just easier to let things go and move on.

Jack picked up his fork, but set it down again immediately and picked up his phone instead. Twitter helpfully led him directly to several articles and photos about what had apparently gone down last night, including a clear-as-day paparazzi shot of Parse and his, Jesus fucking Christ, _husband_ emerging from one of those cheesy Las Vegas roadside chapels, hand-in-hand and smiling huge from ear-to-ear.

He also had a handful of texts from his dad, one from his mom, and about thirty from the SMH group chat that he’d ignored in favor of shuffling blearily to the breakfast table after his and Bittle’s late night last night had kept him awake for much longer than he should have been the night before a game. Nothing at all from Parse—but then, sure, yeah, he was probably busy.

YOU (8:02 AM): Call me.

“Jack, I—”

“—sorry, what?”

Jack looked up from his phone and Bittle met his gaze. There was something in it that Jack couldn’t figure out—something searching, maybe—but then it smoothed out easily with Bittle’s sigh and smile. “Finish your eggs, sweetheart, or you’re going to be late.”

Parse didn’t call for several days, but right when Jack had decided he’d had enough of waiting and was going to reach out himself, even though it felt like losing, his phone rang in the middle of a tape review session, flashing Parse’s name and the tiny icon of Parse’s cat like the red cape of a matador the bull was helpless to resist.

“Are you okay?” Jack answered the call with, once he’d excused himself from the conference room.

Parse sounded exhausted when he replied, “You know, demanding for me to call you isn’t like the most endearing thing in the world, Jack.”

“But you did it anyway,” Jack pointed out. “But seriously, Parse, are you okay? I’ve been—I mean, the coverage hasn’t been…great.”

Parse heavily blew out a breath, the sound coming sharp and staticky in Jack’s ear. “I mean, it’s whatever? I don’t know. I guess I kinda assumed it wouldn’t be as big—I mean, you and your—I don’t know. I don’t know, Jack. I don’t know what to tell you.”

“Tell me if you’re okay. Do you need…well I mean I—” Jack cut himself off and brought the phone down away from his ear. He could feel his heart starting to race in his chest, the adrenaline of wanting to do something but not having any idea what or if it was even related to Parse’s situation at all spiking. The thought that Parse, however unfairly, didn’t get to have the same kind of experience coming out and being happy that he and Bittle did just didn’t…sit right with him. It was stupid that people couldn’t just—or, well maybe it was more that he and Bittle had picked a better time?

Jack hadn’t had a care in the world in that moment at center ice. He was in love, and he’d just accomplished everything he’d worked his entire life to do. He’d been so happy, and Bittle had been staring up at him with those huge, beautiful brown eyes, and Jack had just wanted—he’d just wanted and hadn’t fucking cared if there were going to be consequences, and so he’d just gone for it. And it had worked out just fine, in the end.

But this was the middle of a rough season for the Aces, and the press was always looking at Parse as the problem and the solution, and maybe he should have waited until it was a quieter moment or something. Unless he couldn’t, maybe for some reason?

Jack picked the phone back up and asked, “Did he, euh, your…your husband, did he force you out?”

There was a short, pointed silence, and then Kent spat, “You can fuck right the goddamn hell off, Zimmermann. Fuck you,” and ended the call.

Jack stood there in the hallway with the phone up to his ear for a minute before he pocketed it and turned to go back to work. Bittle was right—he should have just minded his own business. Parse always— _fuck_. Fuck him.

Jack liked the way Bittle fell apart when they were in bed together, or maybe…maybe he liked the way he _made_ Bittle fall apart. The way his eyes would flutter when Jack sucked him down, the way his fingers would pull taut in Jack’s hair, urging him on, the way he would say, his accent getting a little thicker, “That’s it, sweetheart, yeah, just like that,” in just the right tone to make Jack work for it. Jack liked to make Bittle feel good because Bittle always made him feel good too.

He was on his hands and knees, braced over Bittle, ready to drop his hips and frot against Bittle’s cock when the idea came to him and, like a dog with a bone, once it was there, he was helpless to stop thinking about it. “Can I—fuck, you look so good—can I take…”

Bittle smiled up at him, raised a hand and caressed Jack’s face. “Go on, sweetpea, tell me what you want,” he said, soft, but firm—the command Jack always responded to best.

“I want to take—take your picture. Please,” he requested, a bit of a whine in his tone, as Bittle slid his hand down to tug at Jack’s nipples.

“You want a picture of little ol’ me?” Bittle teased, tucking his chin down and looking up at Jack coyly. “Whatever for?”

“I want—I want to—I want to show you off.”

“Oh.” Bittle smiled, eyes huge and wide-open, and he twisted Jack’s nipple into a tight bud and pinched hard. “You do? Who…who do you want to show off for?”

“Want, oh fuck, that’s—yeah, I like…I like that—” Jack cut off on a moan, as Bittle arched up into Jack’s space, got his teeth around Jack’s nipple and teased so lightly with his tongue. “Can I, please, I want—I want to show him.”

“Show who, honey?” Bittle slowly asked. He suckled for a moment at Jack’s nipple and then dragged his lips across Jack’s chest to reach the other one.

“K—Kenny. I want to show Kenny how—fuck, _fuck, ow_!”

“Oh, shoot! Oh honey, I’m sorry, too hard? Let me make it better,” Bittle promised, pressing his lips to Jack’s other nipple and soothed the sting with his tongue.

The pain faded easily and the arousal built back in its place—Jack had always liked more than a little pain with his pleasure, and Bittle was usually pretty good about finding the balancing line. Truthfully, Jack liked it best when Bittle didn’t soothe those hurts too soon, but he understood it was hard for Bittle sometimes to push. It didn’t matter all that much in the long run though because Jack liked what they did in bed—getting off was the end goal, and they always hit it together.

“Can I?” Jack then asked again, more urgently. He still wanted it, wanted to show Parse just how good Bittle looked, how good Jack was making him feel—wanted to show off.

Parse had always been Jack’s biggest competition, so it had always been said.

Bittle looked up at Jack, eyes wide again and searching over Jack’s face. He sighed gently and smiled, then said, “How do you want me, Jack?”

Jack surged forward and pressed a bruising kiss into Bittle’s lips, pulling a surprised _mmph!_ out of him, that then gentled into a pleased hum. Fuck, Jack loved that sound so much, the approval of it, knowing he did the right thing. He pulled back then and hopped off the bed to go grab his phone from where he’d left it on the dresser. “Maybe, euh, actually, you should take it?” Jack suggested, when he climbed back into bed, clumsily handing the phone over in his eagerness. “You’ll have the better angle. I want…I want my mouth on you and then I want—I want your face when I—when you come, I want all of it, and I want him—I want to show Kenny how good—I want, fuck, God, I want—”

“—easy, honey, you’re working yourself all up in a lather,” Bittle interrupted sharply, and fuck, Jack loved that too—the slight scold of it only meant that he had to do better, work harder to make Bittle be sweet to him again.

“Sorry,” Jack apologized quickly, and took a deep, purposeful breath to show he was calm. “You’re right. I’m just—I just want to show him how good I…how good we look.”

Bittle reached up with his free hand and traced along the line of Jack’s cheekbone then down across his lips. “You do look so good with my dick in your mouth, baby,” he murmured, the praise of it shooting a straight line directly to Jack’s cock. “So why don’t we do a video instead?”

They had never shared videos before, only pictures. After near radio silence since the disaster of a phone call a month ago, except for sporadic texts here and there, would Parse think it was too much?

( _Isn’t that the point?_ a small, seductive voice in his head asked him.)

It’d be hot though—it’d be so fucking hot to have Bittle hold the camera and capture every little detail of how good Jack was at sucking him off, capture every sound he made, everything real about it that a photo just couldn’t get. And fuck, it’d piss Parse off so much. It’d make him so angry he’d want to…no, he’d _have_ to retaliate somehow. He’d have to send something back, something worse, maybe. Maybe he’d take a video of him and his husband fuck—

“Please?” Jack asked, before he got his hands onto Bittle’s hips and pulled him flush with his own hips. “I want it.”

“Whatever you want, sugar,” Bittle replied, as he picked up the phone to start recording.

Jack expected to hate All Star Weekend because as much as he had loosened up a lot during his first season in the Show, he still didn’t feel hugely comfortable around guys who weren’t already on his team. It might have been nice, too, to take the break and maybe take a vacation with Bittle, but Jack was a star now, and he knew he had to accept the extra obligations that came along with being one of the best in the league.

“Thought you were going to pull a Crosby and take the fine,” Parse said. He leaned against the bar and looked like he didn’t have a single care in the world, but Jack could tell he was tense. His focus kept shifting, watching the door first then tracking a couple of Central Division players as they made their way over to the bar then back to the table of Russians he’d left Stanislav at when Jack had beckoned him over for a drink.

He still looked tired.

“It was an honor to be chosen,” Jack responded.

Parse snorted. “Yeah, I bet…nice, though, the League can crow about how awesome and diverse it is now that they’ve got two homos in the All Star Game,” he snarked.

Jack tried not to bristle, but Parse always made everything so fucking difficult. “Don’t talk like that,” he admonished. “You don’t always have to be an asshole.”

“Lay off, buddy, you’re not my captain or my boyf—my husband.” There was a least a little humor in it though, and Jack hoped that meant they could keep talking for a bit without fighting. “Man, still fucking weird to say.”

“Husband?”

Parse smiled a little and ran the hand not clutching his beer bottle through his too-shaggy hair. “Yeah…doesn’t feel like it really happened sometimes, you know?”

“I don’t know,” Jack replied honestly. If he and Bittle ever got to that point, he was pretty sure it wouldn’t feel surreal or anything…just right. “He, uh, with you this weekend?”

“Who, Ferris? No, he had to work.” Parse took a long drink and then asked, “How about your, uh, the baker?”

Jack shook his head. “Had his own game this weekend.” Which, shit, reminded Jack he needed to try to get to a computer so he could stream it.

“Mmm, right,” Parse said, and if it was anyone else, it wouldn’t have sounded judgmental, but Jack liked to think he knew Parse better.

“You have something to say?”

Parse sighed and set his bottle down on the bar with a loud thunk. “You know, honestly, bud, I’m not actually always trying to start a fucking fight with you, so it’d be fucking cool if you chilled the goddamn hell out a little bit for once in your fucking life and gave me the fucking benefit of the doubt,” he said, voice rising at first and then lowering until he was practically hissing it like a snake.

Jack narrowed his eyes and turned in to crowd Parse up against the bar, arms on either side of him, boxing him in. “I wasn’t trying either, Kenny—I just wanted to talk. We’re both grown ups now, and we’re both…we’ve both got someone, so fuck me, I guess, for thinking maybe we could be friends again.”

Parse looked up at Jack through his eyelashes, assessing, but Jack wasn’t going to let him win again. “That what you want, Jack, really? You want us to be friends again?”

“That’s what I want.”

“From where I’m standing,” Parse replied, tilting his head up and getting closer…too close—why was he suddenly so close?—“that isn’t what it looks like at all.”

“Don’t,” Jack said.

Parse snorted again and rolled his eyes, but leaned up closer to get his mouth right next to Jack’s ear. “I’m not doing anything, Jack,” he said quietly, lips brushing against Jack’s skin in exactly the way that was _something_ , not nothing.

“Yes you are,” Jack replied. “You—you’re…Kenny I mean it.”

Parse pulled back and smiled at him, all teeth just like Bittle did sometimes when someone said something ignorant he was too polite to call them out on. “So do I, Jack. You want to be friends? Maybe we should stop with the porn clips then. Because I gotta be honest with you…when I watch them? I’m feeling anything but _friendly_ towards you—hey, Burnsie!” He ducked out from under Jack’s arms like he was on a perfect breakaway and fell into step with Brent Burns, like nothing had happened.

Jack glared after him for a moment and then left the bar. He had a game to watch, after all.

YOU (10:48 AM): You know, you never collected.

PARSE (11:03 AM): im still deciding what i want

Twenty minutes later, Parse sent a close-up of his tongue at the spongy head of his husband’s dick, and Jack went to find Bittle, who was supposed to be finishing the edits on his thesis paper but was instead pulling a pie out of the oven.

After Bittle came down Jack’s throat, they stretched out together right there on the kitchen floor, Bittle with his head on Jack’s chest and his hand absently playing with Jack’s dick—still hard, but not yet ready to come—as he caught his breath. “Not that I’m not grateful, hun, but what on earth was that for?” he asked after a while.

“Do you ever feel like you’re in over your head?” Jack asked instead of answering the question. Because the answer was that Parse was a fucking asshole and turned him on, and Jack didn’t want to think about specifically what that meant right now.

“Oh lord, Jack, all the time sometimes…I feel like I’m never gonna finish this thing in time for graduation and I also don’t even know if I want to fin—I mean, I don’t know, honey.” Bittle tucked himself a little closer into Jack’s side, pressing his face into Jack’s chest and sighing gently, as he got a better grip on Jack and started stroking him in earnest now. “What are you talking about though? Anything I can help you with?”

“I don’t know.” Jack concentrated on the feel of Bittle’s hand on him, and that felt really fucking good—a tight grip, slick with his pre-come, and Bittle’s mouth against his skin. “I love you though.”

“I love you too, sweetheart. Now let’s see about making you feel good.”

“Go slow, please,” Jack requested, closing his eyes and then opening them right back up again when the image of Parse played across his mind. “No, wait, go faster.”

“Hmmm, and here I thought I was supposed to decide what you get.” Bittle obliged him anyway though, speeding up his hand and starting a good, solid pace that worked Jack up easily. “Should I get the camera, hun?” he asked.

“Yeah, fuck— _shit_ , yes, yes please!” Bittle got up to retrieve Jack’s phone, and Jack got a hand around himself in the meanwhile, stroking himself tight and firm and quick to keep it going. “A video, maybe, if I—do I look…how do I look?”

Bittle looked up from the phone at Jack and his face softened. “Oh, sweetheart, you look so good, so…so sexy and needy and you just—you’re so good, baby. You’re the best,” he praised, and held the phone up to take the shot, just as Jack came, with a loud cry, all over his stomach.

“Did you—did you get it?” Jack asked, panting, as he levered himself up to sitting with his back against the island. “Did I look—can I see it before you send?”

Bittle came and sat down next to him, dropped a kiss onto Jack’s shoulder and then leaned his head down on it. “Yeah, sweetpea, I got it. You looked perfect. I sent it already.”

“Thank you,” Jack said after a long moment of waiting. He was still coming down, he thought. It was a lot—that was a lot. “Bittle, I…”

“I love you, Jack,” Bittle said, wrapping his arms around Jack’s middle and hugging him tightly. “You know that, right? You know that.”

“I know, bud,” Jack responded, tilting his head down to rest on Bittle’s. God, he did love him. So much. He was so good for Jack. He made Jack a better person, and Jack needed that in his life. “I love you too.”

The Falconers clinched a playoff spot at the tail-end of March—no Stanley Cup hangover on Jack’s watch, thank you—but the Aces continued to jockey for position until they managed to snag, by the skin of their teeth, a wild card berth in the Pacific.

Jack sent Parse a congratulatory text the morning after they managed it, received an uncharacteristically terse [plain smiling emoji] in response, and found himself in a grumpy mood for the rest of the day.

“Can I ask you something, honey?” Bittle’s hands were up at his chest, clenched together and rubbing back and forth like he wanted to be kneading dough.

Jack paused in taking off his shirt before climbing into bed for the night and came to sit down next to Bittle. “Yeah, always,” he answered, trying not to let his imagination run away with him. As it was, his heart-rate picked up, and he could feel the beginnings of something unpleasant prickling under his skin.

Sensing it probably, because he was really good about that kind of thing, Bittle smiled at him and then shifted so he could climb into Jack’s lap and wrap his arms around Jack in a tender hug. “Nothing bad, sweetpea, I promise. I just…when you—um—”

He cut off for so long that Jack felt the anxiety ratchet up sky-high and a soft tremor wracked him.

“Oh sweetheart, it’s fine!” Bittle said, hands now fluttering at his face and neck, trying to calm him down. “You’re fine, Jack, really, it’s totally all right. You’re here, with me, and we’re safe. I promise. Everything is all right.”

Jack’s phone dinged loudly from the bedside table, and he flicked a glance its way. His hands practically itched with the need to check it to see what bad news it would obviously contain, but then Bittle took them into his own hands and squeezed gently, drawing Jack’s attention back where it belonged.

“You’re all right, sweetpea. Everything is going to be just fine. I promise,” he repeated, babbling it in a soft, comforting voice, until Jack felt like he could breathe again. “That’s it, Jack. You’re good. You’re so good.”

“Th-thanks, Bittle. I—I needed that. Thank you.” Jack dipped his head and laid it down on Bittle’s, cuddling him close. “Thanks,” he repeated.

“Do you…do you want me to read it for you?” Bittle asked, half a whisper.

He should say no, Jack knew. It didn’t matter. It probably wasn’t even from Parse anyway. But—

PARSE (10:02 PM): hey. you up?


	3. Kenny & Zimms

The Aces took the Kings in five and the Sharks in six, but washed out in five to the fucking Winnipeg Jets, and Kent knew that was it for him in Las Vegas. If he’d managed to get them that third Cup, he thought he might have been able to weather all the insidious shit that had been building since he and Ferris got higher than Mount Everest and decided that all the open wedding chapels were actually signs that they should tie the knot.

He’d known better—Kent had always fucking known better that for all their lip service to Brian Burke and for all their ‘oh if a guy is producing on the ice, who cares what he’s doing at home’, the front office and most of the guys on his team weren’t enlightened and didn’t actually give a fuck about the kid who’d taken a bottom-of-the-barrel expansion team and dragged them to Stanley glory twice over the course of his fucking stellar career.

His mood was so dismal that he couldn’t even take pleasure in the Falconers’ spectacular flame-out in round one—an embarrassing four straight losses to Pittsburgh, especially when Pittsburgh then went on to be trounced by the Caps.

“You got two rounds further than Jack, at least,” Ferris said, for the tenth or so time since Kent had arrived home from locker cleanout, looking murderous and depressed at the same time. Ferris slid his hands through Kent’s hair, locked his fingers together at the back of Kent’s neck and pulled him forward to press their foreheads together. “Do you wanna do the thing? Might make you feel better.”

Kent’s gaze flickered to his phone for a brief moment, but then he sighed and said, “No. I’m not in the mood. Don’t even think I can get it up.”

“You sure?” Ferris pressed closer, aligning their hips and rolling in a slow grind so Kent could feel that he was ready, even if Kent wasn’t there yet. “I could eat you out, if you want.”

“I said no, Christ!” Kent pushed him away and flopped down on the bed with a frustrated growl. “Can’t you fucking let me wallow for like two goddamn seconds? I’m gonna be fucking traded, Ferris, this isn’t like—I just want to be fucking mad without you fucking trying to distract me. Let me be mad. I want to be fucking mad! Okay?”

Ferris tilted his head a little, lips settling in a thin line and expression icing over, like he always, always fucking did when he was mad. But he wouldn’t yell—nah, too cool, too calm and fucking collected, too perfect for that. What’s an emotion? Ferris Smith doesn’t know, he’s never had one in his whole life!

Kent sighed angrily again and sat up, scooting to the edge of the bed and holding out his hands. “I’m sorry—I’m just…I need to process or whatever and you—you’re—fuck. You know I’m glad you’re here, right?”

“I don’t know, do I?” Ferris responded because he was a fucking child.

“I just need some fucking time to be angry. Is that okay?” Kent asked, through gritted teeth.

“It’s fine.” Ferris gave Kent a half-smile, and a sarcastic-seeming salute, and then dipped out of the bedroom to go god-knows-where.

“Fuck you,” Kent muttered to himself, as he picked up his phone and fired off a text he knew he was going to regret four seconds after he sent it. But after he read the response, he snorted a laugh and added, “And fuck you too, asshole,” already feeling better.

YOU (2:31 PM): marriage fuckin gsucks and so does hockey

JACK FUCKING ZIMMERMANN (2:34 PM): Maybe you’re just bad at both.

YOU (2:35 PM): eat my entire ass fuckface

JACK FUCKING ZIMMERMANN (2:36 PM): You wish.

JACK FUCKING ZIMMERMANN (2:36 PM): You did good this season, Kenny. Don’t let them make you feel otherwise. Okay?

YOU (3:10 PM): thanks zimms.

It went about exactly the way Kent thought it would: blah, blah, blah cap space, blah blah blah rebuilding around prospects, blah blah blah picks in the pipeline, blah blah blah thank you for your years of service and fuck you very much.

In the end though, Colorado was only a twoish hour flight away from Las Vegas, which meant that Kent and Swoops, Scrappy, Stani and, fucking somehow even, Carly could still kick it from time to time, and the roster was actually really decent. But apparently that didn’t mean shit to a doctor whose practice was _here, babe, and I can’t just pick up and start over._

“Can’t you get a referral to some other practice?” Kent said quietly, trying to keep the whine out of his voice.

Ferris didn’t answer at first, because they both knew that, yeah, he definitely could, but he wasn’t going to, which was a different thing entirely. Then, he closed the now-empty dresser drawer, and came to sit on the bed next to Kent. “I like what I have here,” he said, letting his hand come to rest on Kent’s knee.

“But think of all the medical marijuana you could prescribe,” Kent joked.

Ferris huffed something vaguely amused and then sighed, giving Kent’s knee a squeeze as he stood up again. “If there was any other way…” he trailed off and shrugged—because there fucking was another way, but he didn’t want to compromise.

Kent supposed that was fair though. If he allowed himself to be honest, beneath the sting of rejection, he thought he was relieved? Because sometimes, no matter how much fun you had together or how good the sex was or how great it all seemed on paper, you just weren’t right for each other. You were too selfish to be in a real relationship or you were too caught up in the fun of your life to really commit.

Or maybe your heart still kinda belonged to someone else, even though that someone else had moved on too.

YOU (4:29 PM): im cashing in my favor

ZIMMS (4:32 PM): What do you need?

“I’ll get everything filed this week,” Ferris said, drawing Kent’s attention back up to him. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and more trade news will hide it.”

Kent snorted. “Yeah, maybe…I have always been pretty lucky.”

YOU (4:39 PM): something huge and distracting. [diamond ring emoji] [diamond ring emoji] ?????

Jack and the little baker boy had been together for like three years or something now, right? A big, splashy gay engagement was exactly what Kent needed. Maybe they’d even invite him to the wedding. They’d all become such good friends, after all. The best, really.

Fuck.

Kent laughed and fell backwards onto the bed, starfishing out and scaring the shit out of Kit, who bounded away to hide at the top of her tower. “Fuck me, babe. This really fucking sucks.”

“Yeah,” Ferris replied—and he did sound regretful, so Kent was going to count it as a win. “I still…well, you know I—I love you, Kay.”

“But not for better or worse,” Kent said, managing to keep it just to just the right side of snarky.

Ferris laughed and then straddled Kent’s legs, sitting down on his thighs and putting his hands on Kent’s chest. “Guess not,” he said, scratching his blunt nails over Kent’s pecs and down to his abs. He wouldn’t leave any marks, but Kent appreciated the sentiment. “One for the road?”

“Yeah, definitely,” Kent acquiesced easily, pushing himself up to meet Ferris’s lips in a biting kiss goodbye.

After, when Ferris was gone—with only the slight twinge in Kent’s lower back to remember him by—Kent checked his phone.

ZIMMS (5:58 PM): I can’t do that.

Kent laughed out loud, and responded quickly.

YOU (5:59 PM): worth a shot lololol

He then watched the dots appear and disappear for nearly five minutes before he gave up, turned off his phone for a while, and went back to packing up his entire fucking life to make the move to Denver. 

ZIMMS (8:04 AM): Can you open your front door?

Kent watched Jack frown down at his phone and then ring the doorbell again a couple more times before he took pity and called out, “Over here, Zimms,” from where he was chilling in a deck chair, having coffee and watching the early fisherman out on the community pier.

He looked briefly bewildered before his expression smoothed out into something like a smile, and he dropped his duffel bag and started over to Kent, and like—fuck him, honestly, for showing up out of the goddamn blue looking handsome and sad and needy in all the ways Kent used to love before they failed spectacularly as a couple.

They were so young then—no wonder, Kent thought now. No wonder it didn’t work.

Jack took a seat in the only other chair Kent had out on his little porch and looked out over the lake for a long moment before he said, “I got your address from your mom.”

Kent nodded, a wry smile on his lips. “She’s the worst fucking security leak,” he said.

“Yeah,” Jack agreed absently. Kent watched him again, took in the way his shoulders were a taut line and hunched up a little towards his ears—tense, then, afraid he overstepped probably, or just, knowing him like Kent thought he might now, now after a whole year of trying, worked up over some perceived slight or perceived threat whether there actually was one or not. “You, euh—I tried…I tried to call, but…”

“—sorta been avoiding the fallout,” Kent supplied. “I came up here after I nearly broke my hand through a table. Deadspin called me a bad gay role model, and like…fuck them, I’m not trying to be a fucking role model.” Kent was too stoned to get worked up about it again, but he could still feel the stray heat running through his blood at the thought of it again. He smiled instead and tilted his head towards Jack. “I’m guessing though,” he added, “you came to commiserate, huh?”

It had been weird, for all that he’d avoided social media at large, to stalk Jack’s Instagram and Bittle’s YouTube page and watch them end it. Bittle slowly disappeared from Jack’s pictures, and Bittle sounded sadder and yet also more determined in his clips. Kent baked the break-up brownies his first night up at his lake house and they tasted as bittersweet as Bittle said they would.

“I—he wanted…I thought about asking him…when you asked,” Jack managed to get out. His hands gripped the arms of the chair tightly, but he otherwise didn’t seem like he was panicking. “But I didn’t know…I honestly didn’t know if he’d say yes.”

Kent scoffed loudly—he couldn’t help it, how fucking ridiculous. Really, Zimms, really, really?

“Don’t—fuck, don’t laugh at me, Kenny, please,” Jack begged.

It shut Kent up really quickly. “You, uh, yeah…I’m—” Kent cut himself off and took a drink of his coffee, then tried again. “Why’d you think that? You two were…I mean, regardless of whatever…whatever this is, you two were, um, were solid, right?”

“We were,” Jack confirmed with a firm nod, almost as if he was talking to himself instead. “But then…then we weren’t. There were just times, more times than I realized at first, where we weren’t…we weren’t on the same page, even though it felt like we were. I don’t know…I don’t know how to explain it.”

Kent thought that…well, he might have had an idea. “Zimms,” he said quietly.

Jack inhaled shakily and exhaled slowly. “Yeah?”

“Calling in my favor.”

Jack sniffed an amused little laugh and repeated, “Yeah?”

Kent turned to face him, as much as he could in the chair, and said, “Don’t ask me to say sorry because I’m not. I’m not sorry, not about any of it.”

Jack was silent for a worryingly long time, but then he said, so softly Kent almost missed it, “None of it? Really?”

Kent swallowed hard. “None of it…except maybe for how you’re feeling now. I guess I am sor—”

“—don’t say it,” Jack interrupted. He turned his head, and his eyes were so big and blue and wide-open and sad, and Kent thought, _yeah, this is—I get it. I so fucking get it._ “I accept your terms…favor repaid.”

Kent smiled. “Okay…sounds good. We’re even.”

Jack opened up underneath Kent’s hands like he was born for it—he pressed into the bedspread, crunching up the blanket with the tensing of his fingers, and he shivered at the way Kent took his time drawing out his pleasure. They had a window here, Kent knew, and he didn’t want to blow it. Because whether it was a brand new beginning or the beginning of the end again, Kent wanted to enjoy it—wanted to learn and relearn what made Jack tick, wanted to show that he’d been paying attention to all those pictures and videos, wanted to make Jack see how good it could be between them.

“You look so good, Zimms,” he murmured. Jack was so easy for praise—so eager, always, to prove his worth, prove he was the best—and he didn’t disappoint now, moaning and arching his back up into Kent’s hands. “I like the way you look under me like this. Like you belong there. You belong there, don’t you?”

“Yeah—unh, yes, yes, Kenny, I belong there—fuck!” he barked, as Kent rewarded the correct answer by spreading Jack’s cheeks and licking a hot stripe over his hole. “Fuck, yes, please, please, Kenny!”

“I like that too,” Kent encouraged, kneading Jack’s ass in a deep-tissue massage, then pressing his mouth to it to get his teeth there. “Like the way you get so desperate. Because you’re desperate, aren’t you, Zimms? You’re desperate for me. You want my cock so bad, you’ll even let yourself beg me for it.”

He remembered Jack’s messy neediness from their youth, of course, but it was different now. Then, Jack would ask for what he wanted all shy and tentative, as if he was afraid that Kent was going to say no—god, like Kent would ever say no to him, ever, ever, ever—and after, he’d avoid Kent’s eyes and act like it hadn’t been a big deal and make sure the next time he didn’t beg even though Kent knew it was all he wanted.

Now, Jack seemed so much surer of himself and what he liked. He firmly told Kent no when Kent slapped his ass, but then pushed into Kent’s gripping hands and arched into Kent’s gentle bites and asked to be rimmed like it was the only thing he’d ever wanted in the whole world.

Kent lapped at Jack’s hole then, getting him all wet and sloppy and messy, pulling moans and cries from the very deepest inner part of Jack until he was begging to be fucked hard and hot, and fuck, fuck—Kent had no idea how he’d gone so long without hearing the way Jack fell apart—no…no, without being the one to make Jack fall apart.

How could he have possibly thought he didn’t want this anymore? How had he given up so easily?

Kent laughed then, at himself, as he reached for the lube and a condom, quickly rolling it on and slicking himself up. Because he hadn’t given up—for all that he’d been in love with Ferris and he’d genuinely enjoyed their relationship until it became unsustainable and he’d well and truly appreciated everything Ferris had given him, for all of that, Kent had never really given up on wanting Zimms back.

Fuck, he was every single cliché in the whole goddamn world.

“Fuck me,” he said.

“No, fuck me,” Zimms replied, pushing back on Kent’s dick until Kent was fully seated in him. “God, god, yeah, yes—like that, come on, Kenny. Fuck me good.”

“I’ll fuck you how I want, Zimms, and if you’re lucky, it’ll be how you want it too,” he answered, rolling his hips in a slow grind back and forth, wringing every single ounce of pleasure he could get out of Jack’s fucking goddamned perfect hole. “God, fuck, yeah—you feel so good. You feel so fucking good, Zimms.”

“Just like that, Kenny, yes. Please—more, please!”

“I’ll give it to you,” Kent said softly. He gripped Jack’s hips tightly and pulled him back on his dick, into his lap, and then wrapped his arms around Jack’s middle to hug up against him. “I’ll give it all to you, Zimms, if you want it.”

“I want it,” Jack replied, just as quietly. He tipped his head back so that their temples touched and then reached a hand around behind Kent’s head to hold him in place. “I want it all, please. Please.”

“Okay,” Kent promised. “Okay.”

Jack stayed until he had to report back to Providence for training camp, and Kent passed the house keys off to his mom a few days later before hitting the road in his Aces-black lambo for Denver. They talked for a while as Kent drove down from Rochester, about the League, about training, about how Mashkov had given Jack a ton of shit for being dumped all while at the same time lamenting a lack of access to the blueberry jam he’d come to depend on for his pre-game routine until he noticed that Jack was legitimately sad about it and had then laid off considerably because he was actually a really good friend at the end of the day.

“I don’t remember you being much of a babbler, Zimms,” Kent chirped him.

“Oh, uh—yeah,” Jack answered, eloquently as ever, which was also way more like him, and therefore the babbling had to be a side-effect from Bittle.

“It’s pretty cute, honestly,” Kent admitted. “I don’t mind so much—aw, FUCK!”

Kent hit the breaks and swerved, just managing to avoid the coyote that darted across the road ahead of him, but the shitstick that had been riding his ass for the last couple miles tapped him hard enough that he skidded to the side and spun out. He felt weirdly super calm though, and somehow accessed the part of his brain that had long-since suppressed driver’s ed enough to remember to turn into the spin and slow-pump the breaks until he came to a stop safely on the freeway shoulder.

“Kenny! KENNY!” Zimms was shouting through the phone, but Kent took a few seconds to catch his breath, let his heart stop ramming against his ribcage before he picked it up out of the cradle and shakily said, “I’m okay, babe. I’m okay.”

“What happened? Oh my god, fuck, are you—do you need me—what can I, fuck, fuck, Kenny, tell me you’re okay!” Jack babbled—less cutely now, but Kent knew better than to point it out.

“I’m three-quarters the way to Colorado, Zimms, there’s nothing you can do. And I’m fine…seriously, I promise. Freaked the fuck out, but, you know,” he paused, laughing a little helplessly, “fine. Alive and shit. There was a—fuck, it doesn’t matter, I’m okay, and I’m pretty sure the car’s fine too.”

Jack was silent for a moment, and Kent took the phone away from his ear, had several long, deep calming breaths and then unbuckled his belt and got out of the car. When he picked the phone back up, Jack had hung up, and Kent would have been really fucking pissed, except that Zimms chose that exact moment to Facetime him instead. “It’s really weird being on the other end of that,” Jack said, when Kent answered the call.

“Being the hang-up-er instead of the hang-up-ee?” Kent asked, hoping Jack would take the hint and not try to suggest it was the same as finding your best friend half-dead on a bathroom floor.

Jack frowned, his perfect droopy eyes going sad for a moment before his mouth quirked up in a smile instead, and he laughed lightly. “Yeah…I don’t like it. Sor—”

“—you’re good, babe,” Kent interrupted him. “Don’t say it.”

“I won’t.” Jack’s eyes flickered back and forth, and Kent held the phone back so Jack could inspect him from head to toe. “You’re really okay?” he asked again, when Kent returned to look him in the eye.

“Yeah…scared, maybe…still.”

It felt like a bad omen all of a sudden—like a sign that none of this was going to work out: Denver, being out, being with…

“Do you believe in signs?” Kent asked, softly.

Jack frowned again, looking confused. “What?”

Kent just looked at him until Jack sighed and shrugged his shoulders, and then Kent smiled at him. “Yeah…me either, Zimms. Me either.”


End file.
